Midnight at Mallyncourt (22 page)

“I—I'm not used to compliments from you.”

“It wasn't a compliment. It was a statement of fact. You're the most beautiful woman here tonight. Everyone says so. ‘You've picked yourself a real stunner, Baker,' Sir Roderick told me. ‘That red hair—damned if she doesn't look like Lady Hamilton.' Sir Roderick is ninety-one years old. He was a young diplomat in Naples, knew the lady in question well.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why am I doing what?”

“Being so friendly. It—isn't like you.”

“No?”

“Not in the least.”

“Must I have a motive?” he asked, smiling.

“You probably do,” I told him.

“Am I such a monster, then?”

“Yes,” I said peevishly.

“We'll have to change that image, my dear.”

“You've been avoiding me all evening.”

“And that upset you?”

“Don't be absurd. I—I was relieved, frankly.”

“I've been doing my duty. I've danced with plump, fussy matrons, with blushing, tittering girls. I've charmed garrulous old crocodiles in shabby velvet. I've carried plates of food to the duchess—astounding appetite that woman has, I don't think she gets enough to eat at home. I've fetched shawls and listened to gossip and endeared myself to all the ladies. Now I can concentrate on you.”

“I wish you wouldn't.”

“Oh?”

“I prefer the—the other Edward.”

The smile still played on his lips, and it was warm, an amused smile, and there was amusement in his eyes, too, as though I were a child he found enchanting. The lapels of his dark suit gleamed silkily. His white satin waistcoat was embroidered with black and maroon flowers. An errant lock of heavy blond hair fell across his brow like an inverted comma. I had never seen him so relaxed, so natural, not a trace of the icy remoteness now. He exuded warmth, and charm, such charm, not like the Edward I knew, not at all like the Edward I knew. I was uneasy, unsure of myself, not knowing how to react.

“People are looking at us,” I said.

“Naturally. ‘What a handsome pair,' they're saying. We do make a handsome pair, you know.”

“What do you want, Edward?”

“I want to take you for a stroll in the gardens. They're quite lovely tonight with the lanterns swaying. We'll have time for a leisurely stroll before the music starts again.”

“I—I don't want to go.”

“But you shall,” he said. It was a command.

I looked up at him. The warmth was there, the charm, but so was the steely determination of old. It would be futile to argue. He took my elbow, leading me out through the tall windows. Before us, the gardens were like a fairyland, lanterns rocking gently in the breeze, spilling great blurs of color, intensifying the shadows. It was cool, the air stroking my bare arms and shoulders. I shivered. From the cold? I wasn't sure. We moved down a short flight of flat stone steps, walked along a graveled path with rose bushes abloom on either side, now in darkness, now passing under pools of color, tree limbs creaking, leaves rustling. Others were strolling as well, and there were quiet voices, soft laughter.

“You've made quite an impression on our guests,” Edward remarked idly. “You've been superb. They came here tonight consumed with curiosity, eager to find fault with you. They're going to leave praising you. Your dignity, your poise—it's won everyone over, even the most critical.”

“Is it so important?”

“It's terribly important.”

“I'll be leaving soon. Everyone here tonight will learn I'm not really your wife. I don't see what difference it could make what they think of me now.”

“But you're not leaving,” he said. “You're going to marry me. I've already made arrangements. We leave for London next week. We'll be gone for two or three days, and when we return you will be Mrs. Edward Baker and no one will be any the wiser.”

“I'm not going to marry you, Edward.”

“Yes, my dear, you are.”

“I—I don't intend to argue about it.”

“Fine. I'm in no mood to argue. I'm in a very good mood, as you've no doubt observed. There's a reason for it.”

“I surmised as much.”

“My uncle's lawyer is here tonight, a decrepit old fossil by the name of Smith. I overheard the two of them talking. My uncle instructed Smith to return to Mallyncourt next Tuesday—prepared to draw up a will. There can be no question of its contents. The old man dotes on you, and, because of you, he's developed a great respect for me. We've won.”

He was still holding my elbow, loosely, and now he led me toward one of the secluded spots abounding in the gardens, pale pink and purple-white bougainvillea spilling over the side of a tall stone wall, a white marble bench beneath, all illuminated by a shaft of silver-blue moonlight. Like an automaton, I let him lead me, and I tried not to think, not to feel, aware of the danger, oh so aware of it, afraid not of Edward but of myself. We had come some distance from the house, a great block of darkness behind us with tall golden squares where light streamed out of the windows. There was no one else around, not this far from the house. I was painfully aware of that, painfully aware of his touch, his nearness.

“Everything's worked out just as I planned,” he said. “Well, not precisely as I planned—I'm getting a bonus.”

“A bonus?”

“You,” he said.

“You're quite sure of yourself, Edward.”

“I'm sure of you.”

“What—what do you mean by that?”

“I think you know.”

“No,” I said. There was a tremor in my voice.

“You're in love with me.”

“That's absurd. I've never heard anything so—”

“You're in love with me,” he repeated. “You have been from the first. You've fought it, no doubt. You've tried to deny it, even to yourself, but the fact remains. You love me.”

“You're quite mistaken, Mr. Baker.”

Edward smiled to himself. He propped one foot up on the bench, placing his hand on his knee, leaning forward a little. His jacket fell open, revealing an expanse of white satin waistcoat. In the moonlight, I could see him clearly, every feature sharp and distinct: the eyes, half hooded by heavy, drooping lids, his cheekbones high, slight hollows beneath, his lips curling with the smile. Behind him, the bougainvillea spilled like a froth of puffy lace, scented. He gazed at me thoughtfully, and I looked away, apprehensive, trying not to tremble. Far away, among the trees, the Japanese lanterns swayed, splotches of color floating in the darkness, and the sounds of the ball drifted out into the night, muted, barely reaching us here.

“That first night,” he said, “when I kissed you—I could have taken you then.” His voice was a lazy drawl. “You would have struggled, but not for long. I contemplated it, I must admit, but at the time it would only have complicated matters.”

“And now—now I suppose it suits your purposes ideally.”

“Ideally,” he agreed. “It makes it so much easier to have you in love with me.”

I looked at him, silent, that tremulous fear strong inside. He was a fascinating man, yes, there was no denying that. He was strong and virile and incredibly handsome, the kind of man women dreamed about, but he was also cold, ruthless, dangerous, and I couldn't love a man like that. He was everything I despised. I
couldn't
love him. I was intrigued by him, for danger is always intriguing, and, too, there was a strong attraction, purely physical, but I was far too intelligent to mistake that for love. I didn't love Edward Baker. I couldn't. Standing there in the moonlight in my gold brocade gown, I told myself that he was wrong.

A gentle breeze caused the bougainvillea to tremble, several blossoms tearing free and floating to the ground. A bird called out in a bush nearby, one sad note, then silence. Edward continued to gaze at me. A heavy blond wave had spilled over his forehead, burnished by moonlight, and his waistcoat gleamed, jacket hanging loose as he leaned on his knee, relaxed, confident that he had only to make a move to have me melt into his arms. I felt cold, and frightened, wondering what would happen if he did make that move, wondering how I would respond. Would I have the strength to resist him, or would I react exactly as he thought I would? I gnawed my lower lip nervously, waiting.

“As Mistress of Mallyncourt, you'll have everything,” he said. His voice was silken, caressing. “You'll have fine clothes, jewels, servants to wait on you, your own carriage to drive. You'll have everything any woman could want, and later on, when the old man dies, we'll sell everything and move to London. We'll have a town house, a box at Covent Garden, and we'll travel—”

“You think you can buy me, don't you?”

“But of course.”

“You think I'm as—as venal as you are. I can't blame you. You have every reason to think that. I agreed to this insane charade willingly, for money. You must think—”

“I think we've talked long enough,” he said firmly.

“I despise you, Edward.”

“No, my dear, you don't.”

He took his foot from the bench. He stood up straight, looking at me with a faint smile curling on his lips. He was in no hurry, certain of an easy victory whenever he chose to make his move. I stood very still, like a statue, watching him. I felt cold, so very cold. Music began to drift out into the night from the ballroom. They were dancing again, the break over. Edward reached up to brush the wave back from his forehead, his lips still turned up at the corners. He was amused. I suddenly realized that his eyes were full of amusement. He gave a quiet chuckle and began to straighten the lapels of his jacket.

“You're a stubborn little thing, Jennifer,” he said lightly.

“Is that what you think it is—stubborness?”

“We've settled nothing, it seems, but then I haven't used the—uh—ultimate persuasion. I'm tempted—you're quite fetching with the moonlight streaming over your shoulders—but, unfortunately, now isn't the time for it. We have guests. I don't want to start anything that can't be brought to it's—uh—inevitable conclusion.”

“Then I suggest we return to the ballroom.”

Head tilted to one side, lids drooping, he regarded me with an expression of idle amusement.

“Alas, I suppose we'd better. We can settle this at—uh—a more appropriate time. I shall look forward to it.”

“You're due a great disappointment.”

“I don't think so, luv,” he said pleasantly.

Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, he strolled across the damp grass to the graveled path. On the path, he turned, waiting for me, tall and handsome, completely at ease, completely confident. I hesitated a moment, then joined him, the skirt of my gold brocade gown making a soft crackling noise. Silent, we moved up the path, through alternate patches of moonlight and shadow, soon reaching the area where the lanterns bloomed red and blue and green, swaying from the limbs overhead, creaking faintly on their wires. The music grew louder and louder as we neared the house and there were others around us now, couples strolling hand in hand, talking quietly. Reaching the low flat steps, Edward sighed and took his hands out of his pockets, wrapping one of them around my elbow in the old, familiar way, guiding me up the steps as though I belonged to him. Light spilled out of the ballroom onto the terrace in brilliant pools, turning the flagstones gold, and through the tall French windows I could see the dancers swirling in a blur of shifting colors.

We stepped back into the ballroom, pausing in front of the windows for a moment, Edward's hand still gripping my elbow. The chandeliers shed dazzling light, crystal pendants glittering, and the drapes behind us swelled like sails, billowing inward. Dancers swept past us, whirling, turning, swaying with the music, skirts belling out, and I noticed Lyman standing in the corner, arms folded across his chest, watching the two of us with dark, brooding eyes. I felt disorientated, unnerved by what had happened in the gardens—what had almost happened—and everything seemed unreal. I had been calm enough there in the moonlight, but now that the danger was past a curious reaction was setting in and I felt giddy and light-headed.

Edward seemed to be looking for someone, holding my elbow but totally unaware of me as he searched the room with his eyes. That chilly remoteness was back, and I suddenly realized that I didn't exist for him as a person at all. I was merely a tool he was using and planned to use again, not a human being with human emotions. He didn't spot the person he was looking for. A slight frown creased his brow. He sighed, noticing me again, remembering I was beside him and we were in the ballroom and dozens of people were watching us. He smiled. He took my hand. He led me into the sea of dancers and curled his arm around my waist and swung me into motion, and we danced, sweeping along through the crowd, music lilting, rising and falling in melodic waves. He looked deep into my eyes, playing his part, and I smiled, playing mine, and we were the handsome pair everyone said we were.

The waltz ended. There was a scattering of applause. A woman in pink velvet smiled at Edward, toying with her fan. A hearty squire in tall brown boots made his way toward me. He said he thought this dance was his. Edward nodded and stepped over to the woman in pink. The music started again, and we were separated, Edward and the woman moving in one direction, the squire and I in another, dozens of couples coming in between. I lost sight of him. I smiled at the squire. He stumbled. I continued to smile. When the dance was over he gave me up to a student I had danced with earlier, and the student turned me over to a tall man with a pearl stickpin in his black stock, and dance followed dance, time passing, my feet aching, and I was trapped, but still I smiled, still I danced.

It was an hour later before I managed to excuse myself. I moved toward the drawing room, nodding to people I passed on the way. My head was splitting. I hadn't eaten a bite, but I didn't intend to eat. I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors in the drawing room. My cheeks were flushed. My eyes were bright. The coiffure Susie had worked so hard on was beginning to come undone, titian waves slipping a little in attractive disarray. A footman passed bearing a tray of champagne glasses. I reached for one. I drank it rapidly and set it down. The old duchess was at the table heaping her plate with food. There was a guilty expression on her face as she looked up. I smiled at her. Another footman passed. I took another glass of champagne. The room was crowded. I spoke to several people, names forgotten, and everything was pleasantly blurred. I felt much better now. I drank a third glass of champagne, quickly, and I was reaching for another when a hand clamped tightly over my wrist.